


Aching Skies, Summer Nights

by Rocinan



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Child Abuse, Crossdressing, Foreplay, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26223121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocinan/pseuds/Rocinan
Summary: A collection of one-shots, outtakes, and alternate scenarios fromPretty Face, Electric Grace(AKA the berlermo AU where Andrés is Sergio’s younger brother)Ch. 1: Hermanito Redux: Andrés sees a stranger at a funeral. This is how Andrés meets Sergio, the man claiming to be his brother.Ch. 2: Outtake: Martín tries on a dress. Andrés gets horny. That’s it.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Professor | Sergio Marquina, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	1. Hermanito Redux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staubfingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staubfingers/gifts).



> Remember when I said I wanted to expand on the “Pretty Face, Electric Grace” AU? It’s finally happening. staubfingers, if you see this, I promised to dedicate the collection to you so that’s what I did! And I hope everyone still into this AU enjoys it too!
> 
> Notes on this chap: This fills in the early gaps in ch. 3 of “Pretty Face” and some bits of this Andrés’ past. It’s basically my other fic, “Hermanito,” in reverse lol (I can’t help it- I’m weak for the brothers). Probably the heaviest one in the collection. 
> 
> Warnings: child abuse, some dark imagery, angst with a happy ending

Andrés watches TV from the house across. If he leans a little higher on the window sill, he can glimpse the cartoons from behind the neighbor’s glass. He can’t really hear, so he writes the dialogue in his own head. One time, the boy by the TV drew the curtains shut because he saw Andrés peeking. So now Andrés is sure to turn the lights off in his room before he looks out the window. It doesn’t have to be for long.

The other boy goes to bed when the hour is up. His grandmother gets the remote then, and she only watches the news. Andrés doesn’t care as much for the news, so he turns the light back on and sits by the wall beside his bed.

He has to feed Salvador, Salva for short. Salva is a good dog, an expensive breed and clever too. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks Salva.

He takes the bit of chalk by his feet and presses it to the wall, faded wallpaper peeling off. The chalk is running out, so he’ll have to steal more from school. He scribbles a bowl of kibble by the drawing, no, Salva.

_“Woof,”_ Andrés says. Then, “Okay. Here you go.”

He asks how Alfredo is doing next. Alfredo, “Al” for short, is Salva’s best friend, even though he’s a naughty cat. Andrés sketches a new bowl of milk for Al. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes, an hour behind. It’s old and broken, but Father can’t afford to fix it yet. He can’t afford to fix it, so they can’t sell it.

Andrés yawns. He knows what will happen next. Father has been upset for a while. And when he’s upset, he drinks. And drinks. And drinks. 

He starts drinking when the boy across plays his cartoons. When the grandmother turns on her news, Father makes his way up the stairs. And then-

Andrés drops the chalk, fingers scraping across dirtied wood as Father drags him out, a hand twisted in his hair. Mamá used to beg him to stop. She doesn’t anymore. Now Mamá only watches when Father slams him against the banister. Father yanks Andrés out of his clothes and ties him down, knots of cloth around his hands. It doesn’t really matter-- Andrés doesn’t complain anymore.

“Look at him!” Father says to Mamá, “look at your little bastard!”

_“Stop it, stop it!”_ Mamá used to say. Now she only does what Father says. She’s too weak to leave her chair, so she looks at Andrés and doesn’t speak.

“It’s _his_ bastard, isn’t it!?” Father demands, “he’s _his_ son, isn’t he!?”

But Mamá’s reply is always the same, a hollow, “He’s yours.”

Andrés feels Father’s belt on his back. Maybe Father thinks if he hits him enough, Mamá will say the truth. But the truth is, Andrés is Father’s son. He has Father’s hair and Father’s blood. Even if Mama wishes Andrés belonged to _him_ instead.

When Father’s done, he stumbles away- sobbing- and carries Mamá back to bed. So Andrés stays by the banister and waits. The first few times, he pissed himself. And the smell was so bad he’s learned to hold it in. He’s used to waiting now.

It’s almost dawn when Father returns for him. Father is gentle when he undoes the knots. He kisses Andrés on the brow and says he’s sorry. He says he won’t hurt Andrés again. But he’ll do the same thing the night after. For now, Andrés thinks Father means what he says. Father always means what he says. Until he doesn’t.

Andrés understands. Andrés isn’t sure if he always means what he says either. He goes back to his room and puts on his pants. He curls by Salva and Al, and opens his copy of Arsène Lupin.

* * *

“A gentleman keeps his tie straight,” Mamá tells him, looping the black tie around Andrés’ neck, her fingers shaking against his skin.

“Nobody else wears a tie in class,” he says.

“But you’re not like them.” She drags a nail across his cheek. “You’re a gentleman.”

“A Fonollosa,” he says, wiggling into his old uniform.

Mamá sinks back on her pillow, cheeks sallow and pale. She purses her lips. And cold, she says, “A Fonollosa.”

Andrés leaves Mamá’s room. She doesn’t sleep with Father anymore, not since she became sick. Father is never home in the morning. Andrés walks down the stairs, the wood creaky under his feet, carpet ripped under his shoe. There’s an ugly hole in the ceiling, where a chandelier used to hang. Andrés has never seen it, but he’s sure it looked good.

When Father was young, the Fonollosa house was golden and grand. That’s what Mamá says. It used to be beautiful, like a cluster of roses at night. Not like the dried garden outside. Not like the dust on cracking walls. Andrés remembers a time when the house was not so ugly. He doesn’t know when it began falling apart.

Andrés walks to his new class. He’s attended for almost a year but he still thinks it’s new. Mamá used to drive him to his old school, where they all wore blazers and nobody made fun of him for his straight tie. Father pulled him out before the summer. Mamá doesn’t tell him why, but Andrés knows it’s because she and Father can’t keep up with their debts. They can’t pay for his classes there.

They don’t have to pay for his classes here. Still, sometimes Andrés thinks of Tatiana. At the old school, she was the only one who talked to him. She told him their classmates never did because their parents didn’t like Father. But Tatiana is the only one Andrés had wanted to talk to anyway. She was funny (and she had a pretty smile). He liked watching her play the piano at the end of music class.

Tatiana told him about the art contest at the end of the year. She thought he could win, so they were going to enter together. She’d bought all the supplies and he’d spent a month thinking of ideas to use. But it didn’t matter in the end because Mamá made him leave that school the following week.

He never said goodbye to Tatiana. Andrés wonders if she thinks of him too. Probably not.

When he gets to class, Andrés takes the seat by the window. Nobody wants that seat because of the rickety chair. Manuel used to kick his seat from behind, but he stopped when he got bored. Andrés yawns. The first subject is math.

While the teacher rambles, Andrés pulls apart his notebook. He folds paper planes and tips them over the corner of his desk. He imagines himself riding them out. At the end of class, the teacher takes his planes and dumps them into the trash. 

* * *

When the school day ends, Maestro Pérez tells Andrés to stay behind. His classmates shove past him, giggling and chatting as they run outside. Andrés walks up to the teacher’s desk, the man opening a box of cigarettes from his drawer.

He stands straight while Maestro Pérez leans back in his chair. The man scratches the stubble on his chin. He bites a cigarette and lights it in his mouth. The smoke drifts past Andrés’ nose. 

“Andrés,” the teacher says, something hard in his eyes, “is everything alright at home?”

Andrés sniffs, a puff of smoke in his face. He thinks of Father’s belt. His cheek still stings from Mamá’s scratch. _Mamá is sick,_ he should say, _Father is in trouble._

But he only nods.

Maestro Pérez doesn’t look like he believes him. He beckons Andrés closer. Then the cigarette comes out and Andrés feels the butt press into the nape of his neck. The burn hisses against his skin.

“Then if everything’s alright,” Maestro Pérez mutters, “tell your bitch of a father to give my money back.”

“Okay.”

Andrés touches the little circle of hot skin, a sting on his thumb. He says goodbye to the teacher and gathers his bookbag. He should have told Maestro Pérez that Father has no money left. But he leaves instead.

Manuel sticks out his foot by school doors. Andrés tumbles down the front steps. His tie lands in a puddle of mud. 

He hears his classmates laugh. Andrés wants to stay lying down. But the mud is soaking his tie and Mamá says a gentleman is always clean. He picks himself up and wipes the blood off his palms. Andrés adjusts his tie first, then the blazer, and then the strap of his old bookbag.

On the first day of school, Manuel had asked him to play football with the others. So Andrés did. But he went home covered in mud (like all the other boys and girls), and Mamá asked him why he was acting like swine. Andrés stopped playing with Manuel after that. Maybe Manuel had hated him for it ever since.

But Andrés doesn’t know how it feels to hate.

He glances at his tie. He can wash it under the sink later, but Father’s stopped paying for hot water.

At home, Andrés takes off his dirty tie. He leaves his shoes by the door. Then he heads to his room and from his pockets, removes the new chalk he stole from Maestro Pérez. He’ll wash up later. He needs to feed Salva and Al first.

Downstairs, Father skips dinner. There’s nothing but rotting fruit in their fridge. He comes into Andrés’ room and says, “I got something for you.”

He leaves a new box of crayons by Andrés’ bed. Father used to sit by him and draw shapes on the wall. Sometimes Mamá would too. Not anymore. 

_How much did it cost?_ Andrés wants to ask. Instead, he nods. And Father is gone.

* * *

“You’re my son,” Mamá says, so thin Andrés can see all her bones.

She shivers, hands around his jaw, nails in his cheeks, as if to say, _I don’t want to die. Andrés, I’m scared._

“Don’t be like me,” her fevered voice goes on, “don’t live like this.”

And clutching him so hard a bit of blood breaks out, she says, “But you’re my son. You will be like me. You’ll die just like me- alone, weak, in your own piss.”

“Mamá, you’re not alone.”

“But I am. I am. I am.”

He sees tears streaking down her face. He looks like Mamá, he knows. For a moment, he sees himself crying in her stead, features all scrunched. Dying. 

“You have me,” he says, “and Father-”

Her grip weakens on his jaw, but her next words catch him tight: _“I wish you were never born.”_

He should say, _You don’t mean that. I’m sorry, Mamá. I love you. I know you love me too._

But Andrés would not mean any of those words. He looks at her and says, “Weakling.”

* * *

It rains at Mamá’s funeral. Father has her buried in the Fonollosa plot, next to where his own grave would be. He cries through the eulogy. Andrés does not shed a tear. But the black umbrella is heavy in his grip. 

The funeral is expensive, much more than Father can afford. But when Andrés told him, Father smacked him in the ear. Even so, the white lilies are beautiful atop Mamá’s coffin, wreathed around her grave, like angels come to earth

Most guests, Andrés does not know, but he recognizes their faces in passing. Past friends and cousins and elderly aunts. But there is one figure he has never seen, a tall man with waves of brown hair and a trimmed beard over his jaw. Glasses sit over his eyes. Sharp, knowing eyes that never leave Mamá’s grave. Too old for such a youthful face. But Andrés’ gaze cannot leave the sight of his eyes. And when the man catches him staring, Andrés turns away.

The man had arrived during the priest’s words and stayed for Father's eulogy. And Father barely noticed. Once the dirt covers Mamá, Father invites their guest inside for a reception, no doubt to the table of refreshments that will keep Andrés fed for the next two months.

Andrés is about to follow the rest of them in when the stranger speaks to him.

“Your mother,” he says, “she was a good woman.”

Andrés turns, tilting his head up enough to see the man’s face. The rain leaves his glasses speckled with water, and there’s a curve to his lips, the barest touch of a forced smile.

“Thank you,” Andrés tells him. He does not say, _yes, she was._

The man stares down at him, as if looking straight through. But Andrés does not mind. He has nothing to hide.

“Andrés, that’s your name, am I right?”

He doesn’t think to ask, _How do you know?_ before Father pokes his head out and cries, “Andrés, come!”

The rain doesn’t seem like it will stop any time soon. Andrés gives his umbrella to the stranger and joins his father inside. When the doors close behind him, he sees the man still watching.

* * *

Father throws away Mamá’s sheets. Andrés helps him get rid of everything in her room that they can’t sell. But the room still smells like her. And the bathroom on the second storey still smells like the shampoo she used to use.

But nothing much changes in the days following Mamá’s death. They live off leftover refreshments in the fridge. And when those run out, Andrés steals leftovers from diners on the way to school. 

He still wears his blazer and tie to school. He irons the old uniform on his own because that’s what a gentleman would do. In class, he scribbles when he should be taking notes, then folds his sketches into paper planes. The teacher always throws them away before Andrés can make them fly.

“Andrés’ mom died,” he sometimes hears the other students say, “my sister thinks his dad killed her.”

“Andrés didn’t even cry.”

“Maybe Andrés killed her.”

“Don’t scare me.”

Andrés shrugs the whispers off. They’ve never been anything new to him. He remembers when Gabriella’s father died. Her friends had gathered around her while she wept- a week straight. Even Manuel stopped pulling on her pigtails then. When Andrés asked the others what happened, they told him. And he’d only said, “Oh.” 

And they’d looked at him like he stabbed Gabriella in the chest. _What’s wrong with you?_ is what they meant to ask. If Father died, Andrés knows he won’t cry either.

* * *

Andrés barks by Salva’s face. Then he says to the drawing on the wall, “I told you. I have to go to school in the morning. So don’t miss me too much.”

He draws a line of chalk from Salva to Alfredo. Al is a cat so he isn’t as needy as Salva. “When I’m not here, play with Al.”

He bends to draw Salva his kibble and hisses at a spike of pain. He moves a hand under his shirt, over the ribs that Father had bruised. Father has been getting worse since Mamá left. He doesn’t buy Andrés crayons anymore. He doesn’t untie him from the banister either, so Andrés has learned to free himself. Across the street, the boy’s grandmother watches her news.

Father doesn’t wait for the boy’s cartoons to end anymore. Andrés can’t predict when he’ll come in or when he’ll weep. Sometimes Father hugs him and kisses his head. Most of the time, Father digs fingers into his arm and slams him against the rail of the creaky staircase. Tonight, Andrés hears Father singing by the stairs.

He’s drunk again, but he hasn’t come up. Andrés licks the blood off his lip. He’d told Father that Maestro Pérez was still asking for his money back. And Father’s knuckle had split across his mouth. Andrés touches the swelling bump, a smudge of chalk smearing against the corner of his mouth.

He picks up the chalk again. When he presses it to the wall, it breaks. And he watches powder spill onto the floor. Andrés looks at his fingertips, bruised. Dirty.

Father’s stopped paying for electricity, so Andrés can only squint by the moonlight. Something builds inside him, something he can’t quite place. He thinks of Mamá’s coffin, of his paper planes, the dried rose bed, and the broken bottles in Father’s cabinet. He looks at Salva and Al again, lines of powder and nothing more. When the house finally collapses on itself, because someday it surely will, the plaster would crumble to dust. And every trace of Andrés in his room would disappear.

It’s not what he wants. It burns behind his eyes. This is not what he wants.

Andrés drops the chalk. He turns to the battered copy of Arsène Lupin, a birthday gift from Father three years prior. Then to the window. He picks the book up, clutches it hard, and-

In another world, Andrés is sitting in the exact same spot, twenty years ago. He’ll think of the mother who never looked back and the father who had left him bleeding into the night. That Andrés stands up. He walks to the window and sees Lupin grinning down, something crooked in his handsome face. 

“Bonjour,” Arsène says, a clean hand held out. 

_I want this,_ Andrés will think.

When Lupin fades, Andrés opens the window and climbs out. He will realize he doesn’t like the script to his life, never has. So Andrés burns it in his mind and writes a new one. He runs and runs and never looks back. He’ll stop by the loan shark’s den and say, “Old Fonollosa is home. If you want to collect your debt, go ahead.” Then he keeps going, and when he next sees his reflection in a storefront window, Andrés feels his mouth split into Arsène Lupin’s crooked grin.

_I’m a handsome devil, aren’t I?_ He’ll think. Andrés likes the new script, so he keeps writing, a simple - _to glory I go!_ \- the only mantra in his head. He’ll fly, as he’s always wanted, even if- especially if- he has to step over a hundred heads to get it. And Andrés de Fonollosa would gladly do it with a hearty laugh. Besides, he loves the way it sounds.

But that is not the script Andrés gets.

He’s by the window when he hears Father tumble down the stairs. His fall ends with a wet crack.

* * *

Señor de Fonollosa dies from a broken neck. They tell Andrés Father slipped on a step. There was alcohol in his blood, a dose high enough to impair his senses. He will be buried by Andrés’ mother in the family plot.

This is the only information Andrés retains. He sits huddled in an ugly blanket, a foam cup in front. Cold water inside. But Andrés isn’t feeling very thirsty. Across the table, the interrogator- a detective, maybe, or just a man who talks a lot- asks him if he’s alright. Andrés has been in the police station for hours. He’s gone to the bathroom a good few times, and he’d rather have a slice of bread than cold water.

“Yes,” he tells the officer, he’s just fine.

“You can tell us anything,” the man- Inspector, Andrés remembers his name now, Romero says, “you’re safe here.”

Then he asks, “Was everything okay at home?”

Maestro Pérez had asked the same thing. Andrés remembers the cigarette in his skin.

“Yes.”

Romero frowns. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

It’s been another hour, and Andrés wonders if they’ll let him sleep. “I’m not afraid.”

“Your father, did he hurt you?”

Andrés looks at the water, half expecting it to tip over. 

“No.”

Romero regards him for a minute, like he thinks Andrés is lying. When the interrogation finally ends, Andrés goes to the bathroom again. But not before he hears another officer ask Romero, “What’s your problem? Fuck, you think de Fonollosa’s boy actually killed him? Kid’s what, eleven?”

“It’s a possibility I’m not ruling out.”

Andrés doesn’t think he killed Father. But he isn’t so sure anymore.

* * *

It’s four in the morning when someone comes to pick Andrés up. “Do you have any family we can contact?” they’d asked him when the ambulance first arrived. He’d said, “No. Nobody.” 

He thinks there can only be a mistake. But the man who comes for him is the stranger from the funeral. Andrés runs his gaze from the spectacles to his beige jacket and black tie, down to the slacks. Neat and unimpressive. But the man’s eyes are no less intimidating, as if he knows Andrés has nowhere else to go.

“Who are you?” Andrés asks.

“My name is Sergio. I’m your brother.”

Andrés doesn’t quite believe him, but he doesn’t want to stay. So he leaves the police station on the back of Sergio’s scooter, wrapped in the young man’s coat.

* * *

Sergio’s house is small. If Andrés stacks four of Sergio’s houses- one atop the other- the result would be the height of the Fonollosa home. It doesn’t stand out in the neighborhood either, not in the way Father’s house did. 

But the air is clean and cool on the inside, not a speck of dust in sight. The walls are white, newly painted, and the tiles are a rich shade of cream. Andrés doesn’t see any sign of clutter or broken clocks. Even Sergio’s windows are so stainless he almost thought the glass was gone. The house doesn’t seem new, but Sergio seems to have just moved in.

“Take off your shoes,” Sergio says. So Andrés does.

In his socks, ripped at the toes, he follows Sergio away from the threshold and to the living room. The furniture is sharp, sparse. Plastic tables and edged couches, nothing like the antique patterns in Father’s parlor. The living room connects to the kitchen, and beyond, Andrés sees a narrow hallway. It leads to a closed room at the end. And somewhere in the little house, he hears the hum of a washing machine.

“There’s the TV,” Sergio tells him, “you can watch it whenever you like, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of your schoolwork.”

Andrés will have to start class somewhere else. That means Sergio will let him live here. Andrés thinks he should ask why. But he doesn’t. After Sergio makes Andrés wash his hands in the bathroom- and Sergio has warm water- he shows Andrés the pantry. 

“If you’re hungry, I’ve prepared some snacks,” Sergio says, voice trailing into a ramble, “it’s all here in alphabetical order, so it’s easier to remember. This is the way I’d like to keep our food arranged.”

Andrés blinks. He looks past the canned goods (and a lot of instant noodles), and down the shelves. He sees packets of hard candy, gummies, chips, chocolate, peanuts, cheese balls, pretzels, jerky, all unopened and glistening with the freshness of new purchases.

“This is all for me?” Andrés says, somewhat gaping.

“Well, I wouldn’t let you eat it all at once. We’ll have a balance of fruit and vegetables every day.” Sergio points at the noodles. “But these are for me.”

Andrés doesn’t ask any more. Sergio opens the fridge, and Andrés sees the food inside arranged in numerical order. Sergio fixes a breakfast of fried eggs and orange juice, crustless toast on the side. 

“It’s not much.” Sergio gives Andrés his plate first and tells him to go to the table in the corner. “But I think a fast meal is what we need now.”

Andrés nods. He doesn’t remember what he last ate, or perhaps when. He looks at his eggs. A gentleman would savor the taste, small bites and clean lips. Andrés is too tired to be a gentleman then, so he wolfs it all down, licks up the crumbs and downs the juice until not a trace of pulp remains.

* * *

Sergio draws a warm bath and leaves Andrés to clean himself up. Andrés soaks in the water for a while, floating along. The bathroom smells like shaving cream, and briefly, he remembers the scent of Father’s cologne. Andrés used to sneak some sprays before school. He wonders what brand Sergio uses.

Andrés pats himself down with a towel, gulping slightly at the bruises still coloring his skin. He applies lotion next, recalling the way Mamá used to rub his back. He wiggles into the pajamas Sergio left on the toilet. It smells like detergent and it’s the perfect size, so Andrés is sure the pajamas are new purchases too.

Before stepping out, Andrés opens the medicine cabinet. He sees rows and rows of pills, bottles for allergies and colds and afflictions he’s never heard of. Sergio- his brother- is an attentive man, so Andrés thinks these pills are only here in case. But something gnaws at his stomach, a nerve that tells him these pills act like Father’s drinks. 

When Andrés leaves the bathroom, Sergio shows him to his new room.

The bed is made, somewhat too big for a boy his height, next to a set of drawers and across the closet. There’s a short shelf against the wall, under the window and sparsely filled with thin books. Everything else is bare.

“If you need anything, I’ll be across the hall.”

Sergio adjusts his glasses. His shoulders are broad. Andrés hadn’t noticed until now, maybe because Sergio didn’t strike him as a proud man. But he sees the way his frame fills the doorway, the presence of his height. Sergio is much bigger than Father had ever been. 

“Thank you,” Andrés says.

Sergio bids him goodnight, an awkward smile under his beard. When Sergio leaves, Andrés closes the door. He crawls into bed and pulls the covers to his chin. The pillow smells like his pajamas. He wonders if Sergio washed them together. It’s quiet.

He hears Sergio typing on a keyboard and a few cars in the distance, but nothing else. Andrés flips on his side and meets the blank wall. Salva and Alfredo aren’t here. He misses them. 

Andrés keeps his eyes open through the night, half expecting Sergio to walk in and drag him out by the hair, even though there’s no banister to tie him to. But Sergio leaves him alone. And Andrés falls asleep.

* * *

“Are you a teacher?” Andrés asks Sergio the next day.

He leans over the counter while Sergio peels fruit, knifing away an apple’s skin.

“No,” Sergio replies, “but you’re not the first one that’s asked me.”

“Then what do you do?” 

He wants to ask how Sergio can afford the house and all of Andrés’ new clothes (each shirt blander than the last). Andrés imagines him without the beard. Then Sergio would look even younger, like he should still be in school.

“I’m a risk analyst, for finances.”

That sounds boring.

“I’m also a professional chess player, but I don’t have time for that anymore.”

“Because of me?”

Sergio swallows. “No. I gave up after the third year of university. I won a good sum of money from a competition and it was enough to help me do what I wanted.”

“What do you want to do?”

Sergio plates the slices of apple on a blue dish. “I want to plan an adventure.”

Sergio doesn’t look like the adventurous type. And Andrés doubts a chess tournament would give Sergio enough money to rent a house. But Andrés doesn’t care enough to ask more. Sergio brings the apples to the living room. Then he goes back to his study. Andrés spends the afternoon watching TV, dangling apple slices in his mouth.

Now he can hear what the cartoons are saying. The dialogue is different from what he’d imagined. And he had thought the villain was the hero. 

* * *

Sergio leaves for work in the morning, somewhat nervously rushing out. He’s left a sandwich for Andrés in the refrigerator and the number for his cell on the counter. Sergio had asked if Andrés wanted him to stop by his old home after work- if there was anything Andrés wanted Sergio to bring back. 

“My uniform,” he’d said.

Andrés spends the day looking through his drawers. There isn’t anything he particularly likes. His wardrobe is a smaller version of Sergio’s own, minus the neckties. There’s a checkered coat in the closet and a grey linen jacket, but no blazers. He doesn’t think Sergio owns blazers either, unlike Father.

Then he hears someone knock on the front door. When Andrés answers, he sees Romero.

“Hello Andrés,” Romero says with a smile, “can I come in?”

It’s Sergio’s home, not Andrés’, so he says, “No.”

“Then can we talk outside?”

Andrés follows Romero to Sergio’s mailbox, next to his parked cruiser. 

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” Romero tells him, tobacco in his breath, “nobody’s in trouble. I just wanted to talk some more.”

“About my father?” Andrés asks, blunt. He’d rather watch cartoons inside.

“If you can.” Romero bends his knees, gaze falling to Andrés’ level. “Listen, I meant what I said at the station- you’re allowed to tell us anything. You don’t have to protect your father- your examiner told us about the bruises.”

Romero puts a hand on his shoulder, a little too tightly. “If you did something… to fight back, you need to say so.”

_What really happened that night?_ is what Romero wants to know. Andrés had been in his room, staring at the chalk in his hands. He doesn’t remember much else before Father snapped his neck.

“You can’t lie to the police,” Romero says, lower, “do you understand, Andrés?”

Romero looks him in the eye. His grip is heavy, not unlike Father’s bruising hand. A motor engine rides up behind them.

_“Let him go._ Please.” Polite. Cold. 

Romero turns at that voice, hand slipping off Andrés, and they both see Sergio leave his scooter. He looks shy, but Andrés can’t mistake the clenched fists, the slight flare in his nose. 

“I’m in charge of my little brother,” Sergio says, “if you have any issue with him, please contact me first.”

“No issue here.” Romero holds up his hands. “If either of you need me, I’m a phone call away.”

Then he gets back into the cruiser and drives away, Sergio watching from behind, something stormy in his eyes. But the storm fades when he looks to Andrés. 

“Did that man hurt you?” Sergio asks.

His shoulder stings, but Andrés knows it’s nothing new. “No.”

Sergio opens the seat of his scooter and pulls out a brown bag. He hands it to Andrés. Inside, he sees the crumpled uniform, tie and all.

* * *

Sergio is quiet most of the time. He’ll ask Andrés if he needs anything once or twice. Then he’ll fall silent and the two of them would barely look at each other through the day. Sergio is like a ghost. Andrés sees him all the time, in every corner of the house, but he always misses him by just that much.

Like Salva and Al, Sergio is an image on the wall. Andrés can believe Sergio is his brother, just as he believed Salva and Al were his friends, but in the end, he could not talk to pieces of chalk. And this man- Sergio Marquina- is the same stranger who came to Mamá’s funeral.

Sometimes Andrés is close to reading Sergio-- then he fails and starts again. He does not doubt that Sergio is good to him, that Sergio is a better man than the others in his life. But there’s a coldness- an alien edge- to his kindness, and a touch of kindness in his coldness. 

And warmth, Andrés has long since forgotten how to grasp.

* * *

At the end of his first week with Sergio, Andrés acts on a whim. He slips out of bed in the dead of night and pushes the door ajar. The light is off in Sergio’s study and the door to his room is closed. Andrés creeps into the study and explores in the dark.

He looks at the origami figures on Sergio’s desk, and one by one, picks them up. Most of them are red, but there’s an assortment of colors there. The computer hums, but the screen is black. There’s a bookcase against one wall, filled by ascending size, thinnest up top, thickest below. And a shelf of binders, with one folder not quite tucked in.

Andrés is about to push it in when he sees a label, scribbled with pen: A.d.F. He pauses then, something squeezing behind his ribs. 

Andrés takes the folder out, sits on the carpeted floor, and opens it up. It’s a heavy file. His photo, a stiff picture from his old school’s yearbook, lies clipped to the top. He fingers through report cards and his birth record, then the medical report from the police. Andrés glances away from the pictures of his blemished skin, where Father had struck him beneath the lip, the shape of a sole on his side, the scabs on his back. Andrés doesn’t like to look at ugly things.

But he keeps looking. He reads through lines and lines of handwritten notes, the ink dotted throughout. He can barely understand most of it and he isn’t too sure if the handwriting is Sergio’s, but his gut tells him it must be. There are diagrams of brains, printed from the web and labeled with things Andrés can’t comprehend. But he reads on, despite the clench in his chest- 

_A complete lack of human empathy,_ the notes say.

_Pathological liar._

_Difficulty forming attachments._

_Early signs of psychopathy(?)_

Andrés tucks the notes back in, arranges the papers the way they were before. He puts the file back in place, careful not to push it completely in. He gulps, then leaves the study on light steps.

Andrés returns to bed. He slips beneath his pillow and pulls the covers over his head. And clutching the blankets, he feels a strain in his throat. Andrés curls his legs. And weeps.

* * *

Andrés tries to remember the night Father died. But his only memory is of himself rushing to the stairs. He sees Father in a pool of blood, and the only thing he can do is ask the neighbors to call the paramedics. It was an accident, is what the police had told him. But Andrés isn’t sure.

He mulls over this in the days that follow, and he doesn’t care if Sergio takes note. Sergio takes note of everything. Andrés wants to take note of nothing.

But he does ask Sergio, while looking over a Marquina family album, Sergio standing over his shoulder, “Was this your father?”

He points at a man in a reddish photo, something in his eyes just like Sergio’s.

“He was,” Sergio says.

“Was he a good father?”

“The best.”

“Where is he now?” But Andrés thinks he already knows the answer.

“He died when I was eleven.”

Andrés almost says “oh,” so he bites his tongue. Then he tells Sergio, “Mamá loved him a lot.”

Sergio draws a breath. Tight.

“Mamá loved him more than Father,” Andrés remarks, “but we didn’t know about you.”

“It’s for the best.” Sergio pushes the glasses up. “Abuela, she made… Mamá marry your father when she found out about her relationship with mine.”

Maybe that’s why Mamá was always so sad. She missed Sergio and Señor Marquina, and the more she missed them, the more she hated Father and Andrés. 

“Did you miss her?” Andrés asks.

“I did, very much.”

And Andrés almost wants to say, _Sorry._ Perhaps Mamá could have gone back to Marquina if Andrés had never been born. But he’s not sure if he would mean that “sorry.”

So he says instead, “I don’t.” 

And Sergio answers, “You don’t have to.”

* * *

Romero stops by every so often, but Sergio always turns him away. 

In a new notebook, Andrés sketches out what Romero wants to know. Father pulls Andrés out of his room, so Andrés pushes him down the stairs. Andrés colors in the blood around Father’s head. Maybe it had been Mamá who pushed him, through Andrés’ hands.

Andrés could bring this to Romero right now, but his memory still goes back to that night. He’d heard Father fall first. Then he ran out. He saw Father on the floor. And he’d gone to the house across. He asked them to call the ambulance, so they did. Nothing happened in between. Or had he lied about that to himself?

Andrés isn’t sure.

* * *

Sergio works from his study more often than not, but he has to leave every other day. Andrés always meets him at the door before he leaves, so he can straighten Sergio’s tie.

“A gentleman keeps his tie in place,” Andrés tells him.

“Oh, I see,” Sergio says. And he smiles, but it doesn’t seem fake.

From the window, Andrés watches the scooter drive off. The school year should be over by then. Sergio’s told him he could wait the year out and enroll in class the following semester. Andrés doesn’t care either way.

Maybe Sergio will send him to boarding school. If Romero doesn’t send him to jail first. That’s where psychopaths and murderers belong.

* * *

Sergio teaches Andrés how to fold origami. He says it will help him relax. Andrés can tell that Sergio enjoys molding his shapes. But Andrés can’t really concentrate. He folds a crane once, then takes it apart, and makes a paper plane. 

When Sergio isn’t looking, Andrés shoots it out the open window. He knows it lands on the ground, but he likes to pretend it flies into the sky.

* * *

On a Saturday, Sergio takes Andrés into the city. Andrés thinks Sergio means to leave him there, half expects Father’s loan sharks to take him away. Instead, Sergio takes him to a little store for used books, a “cozy” place run by a white-haired lady with a hunched back.

“Why are we here?” Andrés asks.

“It’s my favorite shop,” Sergio says, a bit sheepish, “I- I thought you might like it too.”

Andrés thinks the store is too modest, but he spends half the day with Sergio in it anyway. When they leave, Sergio buys him the complete adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Thief, every story collected into two thick volumes. When Sergio asks if he’d like Sherlock Holmes as well, Andrés shakes his head. Holmes isn’t Lupin.

They have a late lunch in a coffee shop two streets away. Andrés doesn’t ask for anything, but Sergio orders a slice of cake for him. Andrés eats slowly, savoring the taste. Then Sergio’s glasses fall into his tea.

And for the first time, Andrés hears Sergio laugh, a warm hearty chuckle that makes him feel light. It makes him feel like laughing along. Andrés has never laughed before. It’s a strange rush of air in his lungs, a pleasant tight squeeze that he never wants to stop.

But the laugh never comes out.

He sees Romero at the table across and he remembers the way Father died. And he doesn’t quite feel like finishing the cake.

“Is something wrong?” Sergio asks, rubbing the spectacles against his napkin.

Andrés looks down. But Sergio glimpses Romero, the officer already on his way over. 

“Let’s go home,” Sergio says.

Andrés walks out, his brother’s hand on his back. And in silence, they ride back to Sergio’s home.

* * *

Andrés isn’t sure how long he can keep the truth of Father’s death from Sergio.

* * *

He dreams of the Fonollosa House, lavish and grand and crumbling to dust. Mamá stops breathing first. Then Father tumbles down the stairs. And the earth swallows them up.

But their hands are still reaching out.

It’s only fair that Andrés join them next. It’s only fair that the last Fonollosa crumbles too.

But Andrés always wakes up before the hands close around his throat. 

* * *

When Sergio’s home, Andrés walks around the neighborhood to sketch the birds. Sergio lets him, so long as Andrés comes back before dark. This time, when he returns, Andrés finds a gift on his bed.

A box of crayons, the same fine brand Father had bought. It’s unopened, so it could be a new box.

Even so-

Andrés never opened Father’s box.

* * *

He tears the box apart. Andrés throws the crayons across his room. He breaks each piece in half, fingers stained with wax as he crushes the colors in his palms.

He feels bones rattle, a shivering he can’t subdue. He remembers the chalk on his hands, the damned drawings on the wall, and-

He runs.

He goes into the room at the end of the hall and nearly stumbles down the stairs. Sergio has stairs too. Andrés had never bothered to check. (Father will push him against the steps, cut the belt into his skin, and give him crayons when the sun comes up, so Andrés will forgive him whether he wants to or not, and he never knows if he wants to.) The basement is covered with paper, floorplans and notes and newspaper strips, threads of red connecting one to the other. And Andrés doesn’t know where he is anymore.

He wanders through, dizzy, bombarded with ink and paper. Until he bumps into the sandbag suspended in the middle of the room. It looks like it’s taken a good hit.

Andrés’ mind isn’t on the crayons anymore. He wants to hit the sandbag too, wants answers about all this, wants to know who Sergio is and what he wants and why he bothers pretending to want Andrés around-

“Andrés!” Sergio cries, rushing into the basement from behind. “Are you all right!?”

Andrés pivots on a heel. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He sees the ripped box in Sergio’s hands. Then Sergio is in front of him. “What happened, Andrés? Why did you do this?”

“Get that away from me.”

Sergio frowns at the stains on Andrés’ hands. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Why did you bring that here?” Andrés asks, demands.

“Bring what? I bought this for you- I thought you would like it!” And Sergio inhales, deep, teeth grit as he tries to keep his calm. “If something bothers you, you need to tell me.”

“Are you upset?”

“Am I- _yes, Andrés,_ I am upset. You destroy your present, then you run in here, and- I thought you fell, I thought you hurt yourself!”

Sergio’s angry, furious despite his best efforts to sound level. Andrés can tell. But Andrés is boiling too, something throttling the back of his chest.

_“Then punish me.”_

Sergio stiffens. Andrés drops to his knees. 

“Are you a coward?” he snarls, “punish me!”

But Sergio only looms over him, eyes boring into his head. Andrés waits. And waits. Until Sergio says, quiet, “No, not now. You worried me, but I’m not going to hurt you. I could take the TV away for a week. But whatever you’re thinking, Andrés, it’s not going to happen.”

Andrés snatches the leg of Sergio’s pants, trembling as he hisses out, “Shut up. Shut up and punish me. Do it.”

“Then you tell me, why should I punish you?”

Sergio’s eyes drill into him, as if he knows the answer and is waiting for Andrés to spill it all out. So Andrés tilts his gaze down, to the basement floor.

Because-

_“Tell your bitch of a father to give my money back.”_

Because-

_“What’s wrong with you?”_

Because-

_“I wish you were never born.”_

Because-

_“Maybe Andrés killed her.”_

Because-

_“Andrés, come!”_

Because-

_“You can’t lie to the police.”_

_Father’s hand in his hair, Mamá’s nail across his cheek, Maestro’s cigarette in his face, Manuel’s foot against his chair, Romero’s grip on his arm-_

“Because it’s all anyone wants to do,” Andrés tells the ground.

And he leaps to his feet, pushing past Sergio and up the small staircase. Sergio calls after him, but Andrés doesn’t look back. He swipes a knife from the kitchen and then he’s out of the house, out of Sergio’s home.

* * *

Sergio finds Andrés by the scooter, slashing the tires of his bike. When Sergio calls after him, Andrés drops the knife. He runs into the street, slips into the way of a speeding car-

And Sergio slams into him first.

* * *

They skid onto the pavement across, the car honking as it swerves away. Andrés lies in Sergio’s arms, the embrace tight, every inch of him frozen to the spot. Sergio heaves beneath him, in and out, and in again.

His glasses lie cracked in the middle of the street, crushed in half.

Andrés breaks from Sergio’s grip, his vision hot. Sergio sits up then, hissing at the scrapes upon his palms. Blood stains their heels. And Andrés sees the skin peeling from the top of Sergio’s knee.

And the only thing he can say is, _“Why?”_

And he crawls to Sergio’s side. Why, why why. 

“Sergio,” he says for the first time, so strained that the voice cannot be his, “why? I took your mother, I lie, I steal-- I killed my father.”

He hears Sergio hiss again. Then Andrés’ head is pressed to Sergio’s chest, his brother’s arms again circling him tight.

“Andrés, look at me.”

He can’t.

“Andrés, please, look at me.”

He tilts up then, and he makes out the wetness on Sergio’s cheeks, the sweat matted to his hair.

“You didn’t kill your father,” Sergio says, slowly, resolutely.

His grip is stronger than even before.

“And I did it because- Andrés, I’m not good with people, especially children.” Sergio grins, a broken smile. “When my father died, I had no one left- I shut everything out, I hated everyone, and I thought I could make myself so strong I could afford to hate them all, but-”

He chuckles, but it sounds like a cry. “See? Now I’m talking and talking and I don’t know what I mean. What I mean to say is that I _wanted_ you in my life. I didn’t know why- but I did. I didn’t think I’d ever need anyone again, until you.”

Sergio’s bloodied hand rubs away the salt on Andrés’ face. Andrés listens to him ramble, everything too tight in his throat.

“But now I do know.”

And Andrés buries himself in Sergio’s shoulder, arms around the man’s neck when his brother says, a string of words no one has ever said to him before, _“Because I love you.”_

* * *

It takes two weeks for Sergio’s knee to completely heal. He works from home then, from a laptop on his lap while he sits on the couch. Beside him, Andrés helps put ice over his knee. They watch sports together, until they realized neither of them cared very much.

So Sergio puts on a documentary about marine life. Sergio tells Andrés he likes learning about the whales. Andrés prefers the sharks. And he scoots closer to his brother.

* * *

Romero stops pestering them soon. Andrés later learns he was fired from the station for selling drugs. Or at least, that’s what Sergio says. Andrés doesn’t care either way.

* * *

Andrés listens to insects chirp, the forest washed blue in the night. Sergio hammers in the last stake for their tent. Then he removes his ugly cap and takes a seat by Andrés on the aging log. The bridge of Andrés’ nose is a little burnt. Sergio had given him an identical baseball cap, but Andrés refused to wear it on the hike up. He doesn’t regret it. 

“Do you go camping a lot?” Andrés asks.

Sergio sips from his canteen. Then he nods and wipes his new glasses. “I think it’s useful to observe the woods every once in a while. It helps the memory.”

Andrés wrinkles his nose. “I think it’s dirty.” And he’s sure there are bugs waiting to bite them from the tent. 

“I thought so too,” Sergio says, replacing the spectacles, “I used to hate going outside. So when I was strong enough to come here on my own, I did it as much as I could. Sleeping with the dirt makes me less afraid of it.”

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t like it.”

Sergio laughs, like what Andrés says is funny (but he’d only meant the truth). Then he stands and takes Andrés’ hand, guiding him towards the grass ahead. Glowing dots flutter in the distance, bobs of light in the dark.

Andrés has never seen fireflies up close before.

Sergio cups a firefly with a small jar. And like a lamp, the jar glows in his palms. He presses it into Andrés hands and says, _“Look, hermanito.”_

It’s the first time Sergio has called him anything besides Andrés. And because he likes the way it sounds, Andrés doesn’t say a word.

“You can only see them glow at night. In the daylight, you could even mistake them for flies. And they’re anything but.”

Andrés watches the candle fly flutter, a beautiful flicker of bright yellow. It would be wonderful, he thinks, to hold it in his hands forever, a tiny piece of sun at dusk. 

“Can we keep it?” he mumbles.

“They’re not meant to be kept.” And Sergio tilts the jar up. Andrés watches the glow fly out. “And I think that’s the most beautiful part. Do you agree?”

Andrés thinks of many things then, not all of them pleasant. But because Sergio is here, and he doesn’t pull away when Andrés puts his fingers around Sergio’s own, Andrés looks to the sky- lit with fireflies flying free- and nods. 

“I think so too,” he tells Sergio.

And he feels his brother squeeze his hand.

.

.

.

He looks at the glass in his hands, half empty. Sergio tips his sleeve around the rim, a tube of vial tucked within its cuff. One, he counts, two, three. Three drops slip in.

Beside him, Fonollosa argues with the bartender, flipping through his empty wallet. He would have been a handsome man in his prime, Sergio observes, and on some level, Fonollosa still is. His hair is still rich and dark, the jawline noble, and some air of charisma in his frame. But the years have not been kind, too many years of cruelty and suspicion in his eyes. And the alcohol had only made it worse.

“Um, hello,” Sergio says, “sir, you can have mine- I shouldn’t drink anymore.”

He points at his glass. Fonollosa scoffs. “What do you take me for.”

Sergio apologizes. Then he puts his coat back on and leaves. Some steps from the bar, he pulls up his sleeve and glances at the needle of his watch. Fonollosa will drink once Sergio is gone. But he won’t feel the effects for at least two hours, enough time for him to return home. He’ll be knocked unconscious for at least a day onwards, and the alcohol would be enough to mask the poison in his blood.

But of course, that doesn’t rule out the possibility of Fonollosa attempting to climb the stairs of his house. As Sergio has observed, Fonollosa does so every night to beat his son. If the drug kicks in then, the consequence could be fatal. 

Sergio gets on his scooter and lets the engine run. Then it’s best that he heads home, to prepare for such a possibility.


	2. Lipstick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martín tries on a dress. Andrés gets horny. That’s it. That's the fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place somewhere in the epilogue, after Andrés and Martín leave Palawan, probably in that "trying new things" phase. Not sure where exactly they are, but let's say a pretentious hotel.
> 
> Be prepared for: the return of Andrés' crossdressing kink, foreplay, the world's shortest and most awkward discussion on sexism

Martín doesn’t remember why he’s doing this. It’s not like he’s drunk. And he’s always been clear to Andrés about what he likes and doesn’t like-- he certainly isn’t into crossdressing. Then he feels the tingle of Andrés’ fingers on his thigh, and Martín thinks, _Fuck, that’s why._ He couldn’t resist letting Andrés touch him here and there.

The younger man looks up at him, an eager glint in his hooded eyes. And he squeezes Martín’s thigh again, a pinch enough for Martín to want more. Not that he’ll let Andrés know this easily. Then Andrés releases him, pulling the rest of the pantyhose up to Martín’s waist. It snaps against his skin.

Martín feels the fiber, running fingertips over where Andrés just touched. “That took forever. Why the fuck would someone wear this?”

“Stockings can’t always do the trick,” Andrés says, a grin sliding across his face, velvet on his tongue, “so we compromise, cariño.”

“We?” Martín scoffs, “as in, women and you?”

Andrés slips a hand down the side of his own waist, running over the laces of that dumb corset, the only fucking thing he’s wearing. And by dumb, Martín means, _what I wouldn’t give to untie it with my teeth._

Andrés bends, his bottom fully in Martín’s view, and collects an armful of fabric. He sniffs the cloth, relishes the scent of perfume and rose. “Plenty of men have worn it too, in case you’ve forgotten. Besides, what do you have against women?”

Again with that teasing lilt. Martín’s learned to love it, because there’s always something to follow, some surprise that will make him part his mouth. 

“You told me it was a biological issue,” Andrés says, pushing the fabric into Martín’s hands, “and if not biological, psychological. As my brother would say, the deeper issue lies within you, not them- do you see women as competition, hm?”

His hands are on Martín’s bare back, massaging muscles from the shoulder down. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martín tells him, “maybe because Sergio never lectured me into wearing a fucking corset.”

Andrés runs his palms down Martíns’ stomach, to the edge of the pantyhouse, perhaps calculating where the corset would be if Martín had been willing to wear one.

“Or do you have mommy issues,” Andrés whispers by his ear, “Papá?”

“Don’t call me that, and no- I do not have… issues.”

Andrés shrugs. Then Martín opens up the fabric and steps into the dress, a piece of hot pink, airy in the back and knotted at the shoulders. Andrés zips it up for him, lingering against the bare skin above Martín’s spine.

“Then you shouldn’t be intimidated by women, Martín,” Andrés says, lips grazing too close to Martín’s nape, “they’re just like you and I. Look at me, for example. I know I’m prettier than any woman or man.”

Martín laughs, scratchy. “Wow- wow, you son of a bitch, you really said that about yourself? You really have the balls to say that?”

Andrés steps back in front, still with that sideways smirk. “I did. You should follow my example. Be confident in your masculinity, Martín- not many men have your shoulders-”

He touches Martín’s shoulder to prove his point.

“-your sculpted collarbone.”

A kiss to the sternum. 

“-your many talents and wits.”

Martín feels something burning. He’s not sure if it’s his crotch or his cheeks. Andrés’ praise is not something he’s unused to, and he can’t say he doesn’t revel in it, but it comes as a pleasant shock each time. Perhaps too pleasant. 

Then Andrés is holding his jaw, and Martín is looking directly at the rouge on his mouth, deep crimson and glossy, a thick layer of lipstick applied minutes before. 

“And let’s not forget your face,” Andrés says, purrs, “such strong features, striking, vulnerable- beautiful.”

Andrés kisses him, pressing hard into Martín’s lips. Then he pulls away by just a breadth and smears the red on Martín’s lips into place with a thumb. 

“You could have just used the lipstick,” Martín taunts, reddened lips parting enough to entice Andrés in for another kiss.

“Oh, that wouldn’t be as fun.” Andrés presses close, and from behind the dress, Martín feels a familiar hardness against his thigh. Erect and somewhat wet.

“And I am if nothing else, a hands-on artist,” Andrés finishes, a little out of breath.

“You’re so pretentious.” Martín tilts his chin up, a slight raise. “Just say you’re horny, eh? That you like me in this fucking dress and you can’t wait to fuck me.”

Martín expects Andrés to quip back. Instead, Andrés catches his mouth again- this time, with teeth and tongue- and sweeps him to the ground. Andrés wants to fuck him like nothing else, and he isn’t going to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next installment might be an AU scenario (maybe a Denver-centric one? Or a younger!Martín scenario? We'll spin the wheel and see).

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading through all 8K words! Comments & kudos are always appreciated.


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